forbidden lair

Torch in hand, he could hardly raise his arm to light the pyres, and where a word from him would have been expected, he could not summon his words. Instead the Maester recited a prayer in High Valyrian that he did not hear over the rush of his own blood in his ears. 

“All eyes are on you, my king,” Cregan murmured once silence had returned to the assembly, not as a stern reminder, but as encouragement. 

With a reassuring glance over his shoulder, to the nobles that had gathered, along with the Rivermen and the Northerners, as well as the Dragonkeepers, Jacaerys finally took the step forward. As he lit the pyres one by one, he prayed that wherever she was, his mother forgave him for his perceived sins. 

Despite his reason knowing it was the order of things, there was no escaping the feeling that he had stolen the crown from her. It was unfair, against the very laws of nature, he would argue, that he would be king when she never had the chance to reign.

The assembly watched the pyres go up in flame, the smoke adding to the heavy sky above their heads.

“She would be proud of you,” Baela said in a whisper, meant only for him and Cregan to hear, but he could not accept the praise.

Instead he walked away without a word, dismissing the Kingsguard that offered to open the door to the litter for him. He mounted his horse, choosing the path that would lead him through the city unguarded, but he refused to be scared of his own people. Cregan and Baela followed on their own horses, flanking him as they had done all day, two pillars holding him up. 

Once he would have crossed the gates of the Red Keep, he would have to disappear once more, instead replaced by the crown, the monarch, and there would be no time to mourn. 

“All day long I am plagued by demands and advice that often contradict one another, how am I to know which decision is right?” he lamented as the party made their way back to the city's gate. “They all expect me to guide them, but how might I know that I am not leading this realm into war, once again?”

“Surround yourself with counselors you trust, who look out for the interests of this realm and not their own,” Baela advised, and he regretted that she could not stay, but he understood her reasons for returning to Driftmark. He knew that before long, the matter of the succession to the Driftwood throne would arise.

“I should dismiss Unwin Peake, then,” he spat, then once the vitriol had been spoken, came to a wiser, more useful conclusion. “I shall write to my mother's cousin, Jeyne Arryn. I will need a trusted Hand once you have gone back to the North,” he said, glancing at Cregan.

The young man frowned, but gave a nod of agreement. “I hope you do not see this as disloyalty,” he said.

Jacaerys almost laughed, a mirthless exhale pushing past his lips again. “There hasn’t lived a man as loyal as you, Cregan.”

“I shall stay and serve as your justice until it is done,” his friend promised, and he was grateful for such a strong presence at his side—it also comforted him in his decision that Jeyne would be an apt replacement. She was kind to her kin, in her own way, but stern and unyielding towards other matters, and that was what he needed.

“And I shall answer any call,” Baela reminded him firmly. “I am only across the Bay.”

Jacaerys looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, taking in her kind smile and earnest eyes, the strength he knew she carried in her body and spirit. In another life, perhaps, she would have made a good queen.

For a fortnight you remained a distant spectator to the start of Jacaerys’ reign, and as he had promised, no harm came to you while you waited to know whether your blood would come, or you would be burdened with Aegon’s child. The prospect of carrying a contender for the throne was one you feared, and even though you knew many were still loyal to your bloodline, the truth of the matter was that you remained a woman, and would only gather support in a son’s name.

Were you to bear Aegon’s son, you would be raising him to be at war with his own family, while Jacaerys had offered you a crown and a promise of peace.

The trials saw many men executed or sentenced to the Wall, when Cregan Stark seemingly judged there still remained enough strength and honor in them. In some ways you wondered whether the Northerner was ruling as he pleased, instead of acting on the orders of his king.

In a gesture of good will and mercy, Jacaerys had allowed you to visit your mother for a half hour, and while you were escorted to a small chamber deep inside Maegor’s Holdfast, you felt as though you were being led to the jails. The chamber was plunged into darkness even though it was afternoon, heavy curtains drawn against the sun, and the whole room smelled of prayer incense. The stones were cold under your feet, even through your slippers and the carpet.

When you had first crossed the threshold, Alicent had held you long and tight. She was dressed almost as a Septa, in black clothes that made her look thinner and more frail than she was. Gone was the woman who had welcomed you to the capital nearly three months prior, dressed as was proper for the Queen Dowager, and confident the war was being won.

Since then Aegon had died, poisoned by those he kept close, and so had Rhaenyra, her wounds festering until a fever took her, and a boy now sat the throne. “What is happening out there?” she asked, leading you further into her room. “I am not allowed to know any of it. Are we to stand trial as well?”

“I do not know, mother,” you said. “Many men have been put to the sword, or sent North, but it seems even Jacaerys isn’t certain of our fate.”

Something dark crossed your mother’s face then. “My son should be sitting the throne, not this—” Alicent nearly whimpered, clutching the rosary she carried everywhere these days, the points of the star digging into her palm. 

She cut herself off, but you knew what words lurked beneath the surface. “All things considered, he has been merciful, mother,” you protested weakly, knowing full well you could have suffered terrible consequences for your confession. 

“He might be merciful, but that doesn’t make him true. If there is a rightful king it should be Daemon’s son, the little Aegon,” she accused, the name sounding awful in her mouth.

You said nothing for a while as Alicent sat in an armchair, the weight of their downfall visible on her shoulders and in the lines of her face. You poured the bitter tea your mother preferred into two cups, watching the fragrant steam rise. “On advice of his council, he has offered me his hand in marriage,” you finally said, setting the strainer aside and putting the lid back on the pot.

“Oh, my daughter, you would be queen?” Alicent asked, rising once more and rushing to you. “In those circumstances, it would be well to use this to your advantage. Men are easily swayed by beauty, if you know how to work your charms,” she explained in a hushed tone, taking your hands into hers.

“Do you mean for me to seduce him?” you asked.

Alicent shook her head. “He is young and still malleable. He has just acceded to the throne, and his council and courtiers hold the power now, but you may influence him as well. Be agreeable to him and he will come to trust you, and listen to you, eventually.”

“I understand,” you nodded—it all seemed logical to you, in a sense.

Alicent looked nearly mad in the low light of the candles, her eyes blown wide and her hands trembling where she was clutching you. “And when the time comes, he will bare his back, and we will have our revenge,” she whispered. “You may still light the way for us.”

Alicent’s words ringing in your head, you made your way back to your chambers once the half hour had come to an end, wondering what path would be yours to take, muttering prayers as you climbed the stairs, pleading for a sign of what was right. 

The Gods seemed to hear your desperate pleas, and as you reached the top of the staircase, a sudden ache in your core speared you into place. Gasping, you rushed to your chambers, heart in your throat, and slamming the door behind you, took a handkerchief that you wiped between your thighs. 

The white linen came wet with a bright red smear.

You did not know whether to be relieved or devastated—one way or another,your fate was nearly sealed.

Late at night was the only moment in the day Jace was able to have some solace—or perhaps in the early seconds of the morning before he fully woke, still on the edge of slumber, when the whole world was at peace and he was not king yet, just a young man clinging to his dreams. 

He spent most of his evenings at his desk, answering his private correspondence or writing in his journals, reading the diaries of former Maesters and lords, educating himself on the preceding reigns. He had taken to learn everything he could about his great-grandsire, Jaehaerys—the way he had built a strong, powerful reign, and the way his legacy had collapsed within the next three decades following his passing. 

Jace was eager to learn from the past, and not repeat its mistakes. 

To his relief, his mother’s cousin Jeyne Arryn had acceded to his request, and was now on her way to the capital, leaving her young nephew behind to regent the Vale. She had already proven herself, ruling the Vale for the last decade and a half while bearing the burden of being a woman, and such was the sort of advice he needed.

A sharp knock at the door came to interrupt him—he pressed the seal into the freshly poured wax, waiting until it hardened before peeling it back, and then called the visitor in. Ser Adrian Redfort, a white cloak personally chosen by the Lord Commander to protect Rhaenyra, stepped into the room. 

“My king,” the man greeted. “The princess is requesting an audience.”

Jacaerys discarded his letter and waved for him to let you in, suddenly wary that an unfortunate news was to come. He remained seated as you entered, crossing his trembling hands at his lap, partially hidden by the tabletop. The look on your face was grave, but you did not waste any time before you spoke, putting an end to his torment.

“My blood has come,” you said, almost too quiet to hear, and he had never been so relieved to hear of blood. “I am not with child.”

Seated behind his desk, the young king seemed relieved, though he attempted to hide it, but you could see the way his frown smoothed over, and the corners of his mouth eased slightly. “Very well,” he replied.

“I have thought of your proposal,” you said. “I will marry you for the sake of the realm.” 

“Before you agree, there are terms you should be aware of,” Jacaerys immediately answered, his gaze lowering to the desk in front of him where various letters were scattered over a map of the Reach.

“I am listening,” you said, your own eyes lingering to the coast where Oldtown sat, heart aching at the memory of your youth in the sun, far from the schemings of the capital.

“Lord Lyonel, your cousin’s son and heir, now rules House Hightower,” Jacaerys said, allowing you time to respond.

“I know him well, we were children together,” you replied, crossing your wrists at your belly, trying to gather some composure at the terms you would next be offered—all the while knowing you had no choice in the matter, and those would be orders instead of proposals.

“He is on his way to King’s Landing to treat with me,” Jacaerys explained, rising slowly until you were face to face, the large mahogany tabletop standing between the two of you . “He could treat with us together instead, if you could guarantee to think of the good of the realm instead of pride.”

Closing your eyes for a moment, you dropped your chin to your chest, reminding yourself of your mother’s words. “The realm has too long been at war,” you murmured. 

“Neither of us will ever convince the other of their good right, but together we have a chance to put an end to this,” he said, so earnestly you raised your gaze to him again. You understood then that he truly believed it, and you wanted to laugh in the face of such blatant optimism.

“While the overwhelming advice is that I wed you for the common good, I would not bring an enemy into my bed,” he continued, and the menacing glint in his eyes made you shiver.

“No matter my thoughts on your legitimacy, you now hold the power,” you admitted bitterly.

“As queen, you would have power as well,” Jacaerys assured you, slowly walking the desk until he was standing so close you could see the flickering candles reflecting in his dark eyes. “Convince Lyonel to stand down and bend the knee, and I will grant you my trust. I don’t intend to keep my queen in chains.”

While you had never been an outward romantic, and you had always known you would marry for political gain or alliance, you had never thought you would one day be a pawn to bridge the chasm left by war. It was unfair, in many ways, on both you and Jacaerys, to be sacrificing yourselves for the good of the realm, but you supposed it was the role of both king and queen.

It did not feel right to be called queen when that title belonged to your mother and your departed sister, but Alicent had been right. This was the only way you could take back some authority, yield some political influence and perhaps, restore what had been stolen. You were the way to put Hightower blood back on the throne—Gods willing you would have a son, and then perhaps honor would be restored.

A royal wedding should have been a cause for celebration and rejoicing, instead it was a solemn ceremony held under the eyes of all in the city, nobles and commoners alike, a show of unity and reconciliation. Soon word would spread in the realm and all would know that the two lineages born of Viserys were one, and the conflict was well and truly over, or so Jacaerys seemed to hope.

Tradition was to be upheld, insisted both the Council and the Faith, but Jacaerys asserted that there would be no bedding ceremony of any kind. “I will not have anyone in this room. The Maester may come in once it is done,” he admonished, closing the doors to the king’s quarters in the court’s face once you had been escorted to his chambers. 

“Thank you for that,” you whispered once the two of you were alone. 

“I did it for my sake as well,” he confessed, looking nervous. 

You did not answer and instead walked to the bed, ready to once again lay on your back and allow your husband to claim you as was his right. It would be the second time you would look at the moldings on the ceiling and forget about your own body until a man was done with it.

However, Jacaerys stopped your endeavor. “No,” he called, and you tilted your head in a silent question, confused as to what he expected from you. “I would not share your bed by force. I would not touch you until you wanted me to.”

“It is your right as husband and king,” you reminded him, a mirthless laugh on your lips.

Jacaerys went to his desk where a pitcher and cups sat, and swallowed a mouthful of wine, desperate for composure, loath to be in such a vulnerable position. “I have never been with a woman, and I would not have the first night I am to be a forceful occasion,” he confessed, and you could hardly understand how it was relevant. 

“I am your wife, to do with as you see fit, you cannot force yourself upon me,” you replied, and it made him nauseous.

“We shall disagree on this, then,” he said, setting the wine aside, the sweet taste of grape turning sour in his mouth. “It will not be our last disagreement.”

Fear struck you then, as you remembered your mother’s words vividly. Your position would not be safe until you truly were the wife to the king, the rightful queen. The future of your blood rested in your hands, and no matter how honorable he was, you could not allow him to compromise your position. 

Without a word you came to him and reached for the clasps of his doublet, undoing them swiftly, but he stopped you once more, grabbing both your wrists gently. “Please, your hands are shaking,” he said gently. “Is this what you truly want?”

You hated to admit it, but he had been honest towards you since the beginning, and thus you could not find it in yourself to lie. “No,” you said quietly, your eyes still fixed on the dragon brooch at his shoulder.

“Then you shall not lay a hand on me nor I on you,” he said firmly, letting go of you. 

Your arms fell to your sides, defeated. “The Maester will know and our marriage will be invalid,” you protested. 

“Leave that with me,” he said, gesturing to the armchairs in front of the fire. Uneasy, you still complied and sat where he wished, staring at the flames and wondering what other foolish ideas he had, if you had put yourself in danger by complying, if instead you should be the one to force his hand—he seemed unsure of himself at times, perhaps you could convince him.

You heard the sounds of a belt coming undone, then the ruffle of fabric and a sharp intake of breath. For a moment too long you sat there, listening to the rhythmic ruffles and short breaths, and it took you a minute to realize what was occurring, and when you did, you felt yourself flush in embarrassment.

Time stretched and his panting grew more frantic, until Jacaerys cursed under his breath. “Should I help?” you asked, biting your lip.

“No,” came the sharp answer. Finally, after a minute more, another sharp intake of breath pierced the air, a bitten groan that reminded you too well of your first wedding night. 

You heard him undress, then wash his hands in the basin. “It is done,” he said. When you rose again, his doublet was discarded and his shirt as well. He had put on a robe over his bare chest—he looked flushed, his high cheekbones tainted with red. His hair looked as though he had raked his fingers through his curls, giving them an unruly look.

Jacaerys felt your eyes on him as he picked up a small knife from his desk, a seal opener, and cut the inside of his arm near the crease of his elbow. It would be easily hidden by a sleeve, and none would be the wiser. He smeared some of the blood on his palm, then wiped it on the mattress where the evidence of his solitary act laid. 

“What is it?” you asked when he went back to staring at you. 

“Your hair,” he answered, almost embarrassed. “It is too… tidy.”

“Oh,” you breathed, then reached for the braid and undid it, raking a hand through your mane. You were obviously embarrassed as well, and he thought it served him well.

As Jacaerys opened the doors to his chambers once more, and both the Septon and the Maester came into the room, you were reminded of the night of your first marriage. For the second time your humiliation was to be witnessed, your virtue publicly claimed by a man you did not love ; tears came to your eyes and you wished that Jacaerys would send you away soon, to pray for guidance and plan your revenge.

Now you had been queen twice, and yet you felt as powerless as you ever had without the crown.

Author's Note ✢ Dividers by @zaldritzosrose. Thank you so much for the amazing feedback on the first chapter, it went straight to my heart. Chapter three will be posted next Saturday, July 18th.

Series taglist ✢ @chaotichereticcavern @galactict3a @qtmoonies @multyfangirl @obsidian-gold1239

@thegirlwithoutaname87 @harryssattelitestomper @rtyuy1346 @kplatzman @neenieweenie

@cinnamoonfairy @g0oshtt @orchidsinthesun @darling-darling3 @pookynknowntranger

@cloudyzip @softlittlevigil @at-a-rax-ia @noneedtosearch @darkrion

@tappyj @tojisprincess @strangersunghoon @devil-on-acid @minaridior

The castle has never been quiet on your name day.

From the moment the sun rises over Blackwater Bay the Red Keep hums with the kind of life that belongs only to celebrations.

Servants weave through its corridors, balancing polished silver and bolts of embroidered silk, cooks bark orders from kitchens already thick with the scent of roasting meats and sweet pastries, and somewhere below your window a quartet of musicians have spent the better part of an hour arguing over the same melody.

The sound drifts through the open casement in uneven bursts, carried on the warm summer breeze before it dissolves into the cries of gulls circling the harbour.

It is all for you.

Eighteen.

The number sits strangely in your mind. Lords who once ruffled your hair now bow a fraction lower. Ladies who used to coo at you now ask after your gowns and favourite jewels. Every smile feels just a little too measured, every compliment just a little too deliberate.

But you don't care, because all you're thinking about is Jacaerys.

And he is late.

Well, not truly. The sun has scarcely reached its highest point and no one expected him before midday, but that does little to quiet the restless anticipation thrumming beneath your skin.

It has been nearly two years.

At first the months passed quickly enough. Letters arrived regularly, each bearing your eldest brother's unmistakably careful hand, filled with dutiful accounts of the Riverlands, the Vale, or White Harbour. Tucked inside each letter had been some little trinket that reminded him of you; polished amber gathered along the eastern coast, a tiny wolf carved from pale weirwood by a Northern craftsman, a silver hairpin so delicately wrought that you had been terrified of wearing it the first time.

The gifts had never mattered.

You would have traded every last one simply to hear him laugh across the training yard again.

"Still waiting?"

The familiar voice draws your attention from the road.

Your mother stands a few paces behind you, sunlight catching in the silver-gold of her hair until it almost seems to glow. "I am merely enjoying the view," you reply, with all the dignity you can manage.

Rhaenyra arches a brow. "The view of the Kingsroad?"

"It is a very fine road."

She laughs then, the sound soft and knowing. "You have been watching that very fine road since dawn."

You sigh dramatically, resting your chin upon folded arms. "He promised."

"And Jacaerys has never broken a promise to you."

"No," you admit, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. "He has not."

Then, finally, a horn sounds somewhere below.

The guards upon the gatehouse shift, peering out across the road before one suddenly straightens.

"Dragon!"

Every head upon the walls turns skyward.

Your heart leaps into your throat before your eyes have even found him.

Vermax appears, cutting through brilliant blue with powerful, measured strokes of emerald wings. Sunlight catches across his scales, throwing flashes of bronze and green over the city below as he wheels above the Red Keep. He is larger than you remember.

So is the rider upon his back.

"Gods be good," Rhaenyra murmurs behind you, though there is laughter in her voice already. You are halfway down the nearest staircase before she can finish the sentence.

The courtyard erupts into motion as Vermax settles with a thunderous beat of wings, servants scattering instinctively while guards struggle to look composed in the face of a dragon. Dust billows across the flagstones, catching in your skirts as you weave between startled courtiers, heedless of the calls following after you.

Jace has barely swung one leg over the saddle when he hears his name, he turns just in time to see a blur of deep crimson silk racing across the courtyard.

You collide with him hard enough to force him back a step.

The laugh leaves him before he can stop it.

Strong hands find your waist out of pure instinct, lifting you clean from the ground as though no time has passed at all, as though you are still the little girl forever launching yourself at him from staircases and behind pillars in hopes of catching him unaware.

Your feet dangle a good foot above the flagstones, your arms looped comfortably around his shoulders.

"You'll knock me over one day," he says, laughter still colouring every word.

Up close he looks older. The softness that once lingered around his face has sharpened into something unmistakably princely, the line of his jaw more defined beneath the dust of travel, his hair longer than before where the sea wind has escaped the leather tie at the nape of his neck.

He lowers you carefully back onto your feet.

Both hands rise to cradle your face with easy affection, his thumbs brushing absent-mindedly against your cheeks.

His expression softens. "You've grown."

"So have you."

A quiet laugh escapes him.

"I should hope so."

Before you can answer, he bends to press a familiar kiss against your forehead. You simply grin and lean briefly into the touch before stepping back, and he slings an arm around your shoulders, leading you back inside.

Neither of you notices Prince Daemon watching from the gallery above, and neither of you notices the faintest curve beginning at the corner of his mouth.

By the time the sun has slipped beneath the horizon the Great Hall glows beneath a hundred candles.

Music spills from the gallery above in soft, lilting melodies. Gold catches in polished plates, jewelled collars and the circlets worn by lords who have travelled from every corner of the realm to honour the queen's youngest daughter.

Jace has attended more feasts than he can remember.

They have blurred together over the years into a procession of banners and vows, polite smiles and carefully chosen words, each hall distinguished only by the sigil hanging above the high table.

Tonight should be no different.

Instead, he finds himself searching for you before he has even crossed the threshold.

You stand near the queen's chair while one of the ladies fusses with the sleeve of your gown, silver thread shimmering against deep burgundy velvet. Your hair has been left half unbound, pale waves falling over your shoulders in the old Valyrian fashion, catching the candlelight each time you laugh at something Baela says beside you.

You have always laughed with your whole face. That, at least, has not changed.

The feast begins in earnest soon after.

Your mother rises to speak, her words carrying easily across the hall as she welcomes those who have come to celebrate your name day. You sit at her right hand, smiling with the restrained grace expected of a princess, though every now and then your attention wanders, your eyes finding Jace somewhere further down the table.

Each time they do, you smile exactly as you always have.

Lord Rowan's youngest son cannot be much older than five-and-twenty.

Jace remembers meeting him briefly in the Reach; a courteous enough man with an easy smile and an unfortunate tendency to speak longer than necessary. Now he watches as the knight bows over your hand with every appearance of propriety, offering some finely wrapped gift that earns a laugh from you.

You thank him warmly.

The young lord moves away eventually, replaced almost immediately by another.

Then another.

A Lannister cousin. The heir to a minor Crownlands house. A knight from Driftmark whose name escapes him entirely.

Each offers congratulations and smiles, looking at you with unmistakable admiration. It is perfectly reasonable, you are a princess. after all, one who has just turned eighteen.

You are also beautiful, a treacherous corner of Jace's mind supplies.

"They are circling already." Rhaena speaks softly across the table, amusement dancing in her eyes as she follows his line of sight.

Jace frowns. "What do you mean?"

"The suitors." He says nothing. "The realm has been waiting for this birthday almost as eagerly as she has."

In that moment, Jace understands has been absent too long, and the little girl forever racing after him through the corridors of Dragonstone no longer exists outside his memory.

The woman seated at the queen's right hand does.

Some distant part of him, the dutiful prince who has spent years weighing every decision against the good of the realm, should perhaps be appalled by what has just taken root in his mind.

Instead, he is struck only by how little it surprises him.

'If a husband is to stand beside you one day... why should it be anyone but me?'

The feast dwindles by degrees.

One by one the visiting lords excuse themselves. The Great Hall grows quieter with every passing hour until only family and the queen's closest councillors remain, lingering more from habit than obligation.

Jace has scarcely taken three steps beyond the hall when Ser Lorent inclines his head.

"The Queen requests your presence, my prince."

The solar is warm despite the hour, lit by a scattering of candles that throw long shadows across maps and parchment left strewn over the great table. His mother stands beside the open window overlooking the bay, one hand resting against the carved stone.

Daemon lounges opposite her with infuriating ease, a goblet balanced loosely between his fingers.

Neither appears surprised to see him.

"You wished to see me?"

"I did." She gestures for him to come closer. "We were discussing your sister."

"Has something happened?"

"No," Daemon answers before Rhaenyra can speak. "Nothing has happened."

"Yet," Rhaenyra mutters.

Daemon ignores her. "Your sister is eighteen."

"I am aware."

"A great many others are as well."

Jace says nothing.

"The feast made that abundantly clear. It also made clear it is time we considered suitable matches."

Jace nods once. Rhaenyra watches him closely. "So," she says gently, "what would you advise?"

"My advice?"

"You have travelled more of the realm than either of us these past years. You know its young heirs better than most."

Jace considers it carefully, because that is what is expected of him, because he has spent his whole life learning how to answer as the heir before he ever remembers how to answer as himself.

"There are worthy men," he finally scrapes out. Rhaenyra gives a small nod as though she had expected nothing less.

Jace continues, "The son of House Rowan conducted himself well in the Reach. The Redwynes would strengthen our position in the south. The Celtigars remain loyal."

At that, Daemon exhales through his nose with open disdain, swirling the wine lazily around his cup.

“Boring.”

Jace turns to him, frowning. “Excuse me?”

“You are answering as the heir,” Daemon says, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world. “I am asking the man.”

He looks between his mother and Daemon, trying to decide whether he has missed some crucial piece of context, and finds only that strange, infuriating look on Daemon’s face.

“What exactly are you asking me?” Jace says at last.

Daemon studies him for a long moment. "Which of those boys would you choose for her?"

Jace exhales quietly. "I could not say."

"You have met most of them."

"I know them as lords."

Daemon leans back. "But not well enough to know which one deserves to share her bed."

The words strike the room like a thrown dagger. Rhaenyra closes her eyes for a brief, pained moment, as though she can already feel the shape of the disaster coming and would very much like to stop it before it begins.

“Daemon...”

“What?” he asks mildly, with all the innocence of a man who has never once been innocent in his life. “The point of a political match is to produce heirs, and that is generally how marriages produce heirs.”

Jace says nothing.

Daemon watches him for another long moment, “I do not believe you could bear it,” he says at last.

The silence deepens.

“I beg your pardon?” Jace manages, barely.

“I do not believe,” Daemon repeats, his voice calm and level, “that you could bear another man laying hands upon her.”

Rhaenyra straightens at once. “Daemon.”

“I do not believe you could bear another man kissing her.”

“Enough.”

“I do not believe you could bear watching her swell with another man’s children.”

Jace feels the blood drain from his face, every muscle in him going rigid as if he has been struck.

“And I certainly do not believe,” he continues, his tone infuriatingly calm, “that you could stomach another man teaching her what it is to be loved.”

“Daemon.”

Rhaenyra’s voice is sharper now, edged with warning, but the prince merely lifts one hand in a gesture that is almost dismissive, never once taking his eyes from Jace.

“Am I wrong?”

Jace opens his mouth but nothing comes. Because the horror of it is not that Daemon has imagined such things, it is that Jace has.

Daemon’s mouth curves, just slightly.

“I...” Jace begins, and then abandons the sentence entirely, because there is no sentence that can save him now.

“You love her.”

It is not a question.

“You are so thoroughly, catastrophically in love with her that you have spent an entire evening glaring at boys who merely smiled in her general direction.”

Finally Rhaenyra rounds on him. “You cannot simply accuse our son of being in love with his sister.”

Jace would gladly vanish into the stone floor if the gods would be so merciful. Instead he stands rooted where he is while the two most formidable people in the realm discuss him as though he were not present.

“He is miserable,” Daemon says, finally turning his head to look at her. “Because half the realm has suddenly decided my daughter is fit to wed.”

Rhaenyra folds her arms more tightly. “And that does not concern you?”

“Of course it concerns me, hence why we are having this conversation.”

She stares at him in open disbelief. “You cannot seriously believe this is the best solution.”

Daemon raises an eyebrow. “Find me a better man.”

“The point is not whether he is a good man.”

“No?”

He waits. She opens her mouth, clearly intending to explain, and then stops, because whatever argument she had prepared has already begun to collapse under the weight of its own hypocrisy.

“You married your uncle.”

Rhaenyra points a finger at him. “That is entirely beside the point.”

Jace, who has thus far wished for nothing more than escape, finally exhales, very quietly, and when both of them turn to him he feels the full weight of their attention settle over him.

“With respect, Mother...” he says, and both of them look at him with identical expressions of wary expectation. He swallows, then presses on before he can lose his nerve. “...he does have you there.”

Rhaenyra blinks. “You are taking his side?”

“I am merely observing...” The faintest smile threatens despite himself, because if he does not laugh he may very well scream. “...that you did, in fact, marry your uncle.”

The silence that follows is brief, but heavy in a way that feels almost ceremonial, as though something unseen has just shifted its weight in the room and no one is yet willing to acknowledge it.

Rhaenyra is the first to recover.

“This is not something decided in a solar with three people and a bottle of wine.”

Jace shifts slightly where he stands, still trying to understand how he has become the subject of something that feels suspiciously like a verdict. “Mother,” he begins cautiously, “if this is about-”

“It is about nothing yet,” Rhaenyra cuts in quickly, sharper than intended, then exhales and forces her tone back down. “It is about considering what is best for her future.”

Daemon makes a quiet sound of amusement, leaning back in his chair as if the entire matter has already concluded and he is simply waiting for the rest of them to catch up.

“Then consider it done. I am her father and I have found a match for her.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze snaps to him. “Excuse me?”

“You asked for a good man,” Daemon says, as though repeating something painfully obvious.

“You cannot simply decide this,” Rhaenyra says, though even she sounds less certain than before.

“I can,” Daemon replies. “And I have.”

A beat.

Then, almost lazily, he adds, “Unless you intend to send her to some Reachling with soft hands and softer loyalties.”

Rhaenyra’s expression hardens. “Do not reduce this to-”

“To what?” Daemon interrupts, finally straightening in his chair. The amusement in him sharpens now, not into anger, but something more focused. “Politics? That is what you are trying to do. I am simply being honest about it. She is our daughter, Rhaenyra.”

Silence again.

He walks a few steps toward the window, looking out over the Blackwater as if the conversation has already moved past him.

“She stays within the family,” he says casually, almost conversationally, as though discussing ship routes. “She stays where she is known. Where she is protected. Where she is not bartered to men who would mistake her for an opportunity.”

Jace clears his throat once.

“If I may-”

“No,” both of them say at once.

He stops.

Daemon turns slightly, looking at him now with something like faint approval.

“You will marry her,” he says simply.

Jace looks at him with wide eyes, “Are you being serious?”

Rhaenyra closes her eyes again, slower this time, as though bracing for impact.

“I refuse to send my daughter away,” Daemon states. His gaze shifts briefly to Jace, sharp and unblinking.

The room goes still.

Jace should object. He should say something about choice, about propriety, about the absurdity of making such decisions in this manner.

“She does not even know we are having this conversation.”

Daemon’s smile returns, slow and infuriatingly certain.

“No,” he agrees. “She does not. And you will tell her, Jacaerys. Better you than either of us."

“And if she refuses?”

“She won't.”

Vermax takes to the sky just after dawn, when the castle is still half-swallowed in morning mist and the water below reflects a pale gold.

The world feels quieter from above, stretched thin and distant, as though all the noise of court and council has been left behind somewhere on the stone below.

You do not question it when Jace comes for you. You never have.

He arrives without ceremony in the inner courtyard where the dragonkeepers have already prepared Vermax for flight.

“You want to go flying?” He asks simply, as if it is an ordinary thing to offer a princess on the morning after her name day feast.

Your smile comes easily. “I always want to go flying.”

That earns the faintest curve of his mouth. He helps you mount with practised ease, hands steady at your waist as you swing your leg over Vermax’s neck.

Then he climbs up behind you.

The moment he settles into place, the world shifts; you can't help but be aware of the warmth at your back, the solid presence of him there, closer than anyone else has ever been permitted to be in this way. One arm reaches around you instinctively to secure the reins while the other steadies you at your side, palm firm against your ribs.

“You are sitting differently,” you note, turning your head slightly to glance at him.

His expression is unreadable for a moment, then softens. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

Here, there is nothing between you but wind and sky and the steady rise and fall of Vermax’s wings beneath you.

He gives the command, and Vermax launches forward.

The world slowly drops away.

Wind tears at your hair, pulling laughter from your chest without permission, and you lean instinctively into Jace’s grip as Vermax climbs higher, circling the coast before cutting out over open water.

His arm tightens around you without hesitation.

Somewhere behind you, you feel rather than see him adjust his hold, pulling you slightly closer against him as the wind sharpens at altitude. It is automatic, the same instinct that has always placed him between you and anything that might hurt you.

You tilt your head back slightly, just enough to speak over the rush of air. “I like it when you come home,” you admit, without thinking much of it. “Everything feels louder when you are not here.”

You do not see the way his eyes linger on you again. The way they soften in a manner that has nothing to do with duty.

You are laughing at something Vermax does mid-turn when he speaks.

“I am not leaving again.”

The words take a moment to settle. You glance over your shoulder slightly, confused. “What do you mean?”

There is a pause so brief you almost miss it. “They have decided something.”

That makes you laugh lightly. “Have they?”

“Yes.” The tone is careful now, though still steady.

You frown slightly. “What sort of something?” The wind howls.

“You are to be married.”

For a moment, there is only the feel of him behind you, the steady beat of Vermax’s wings, and the distant horizon that suddenly feels much further away than it did a moment ago.

You blink. “...What do you mean?”

“It has been agreed,” he says more softly. “Between our mother and Daemon.”

Your grip on the reins tightens slightly, though Vermax does not react. “Oh,” you say slowly, as if testing the shape of the word. “That is… sudden.”

“It is.”

You turn your head further now, trying to see his face properly, though the angle is awkward with the wind pulling at you. “And who-”

You stop. Because when his jaw tightens you realise you already know.

“Jace,” you say carefully. He doesn't answer, just stares ahead. "Jace. Are we to be married?"

"...Yes."

You turn fully now as much as the space allows, looking at him properly for the first time.

“You are very composed about this,” you say, attempting levity and failing to find it entirely.

His mouth twitches, almost a smile. “I had some time to think.”

The wind pulls at you again, but he shifts without thinking, bringing you closer still until there is barely any space between you at all. You are suddenly acutely aware of it; of the way his arm anchors you, of the warmth at your back, of the steady, unyielding presence of him in a place where there is nothing else to hold onto.

You swallow. “And what do you think?” you ask.

He finally looks at you. “That I would not allow anyone else to do this,” he says quietly.

Something in your chest tightens. “Do what?”

“I would never allow anyone else to stand where I stand.”

Vermax banks sharply beneath you; it sends you forward, straight into him. His arm tightens instantly, catching you before you can even think to steady yourself, and for a moment you are completely held there against him, suspended between sky and breath.

You search his face for something. Uncertainty? Jest? Anything that might soften what he has just said into something easier to carry. You find none.

Your hand rises without thinking, resting lightly against the side of his face. His breath catches, not sharply, but enough.

“Jace,” you say, and his name feels different in your mouth now. He does not answer.

For a heartbeat, there is nothing but the rush of wind and the distant cry of the sea far below.

Then he is kissing you.

Not like something uncertain or newly discovered, but like something that has finally been allowed to exist.

His hand tightens at your waist, suddenly far too close in a way neither of you can undo.

You make a small sound against his mouth, half surprise, half something you don’t yet have a name for, and it seems to undo whatever careful restraint he has been holding onto.

The arm around you shifts, pulling you back against him with a controlled urgency that sends your breath catching, your fingers instinctively curling into the front of his riding leathers as if that alone can keep you anchored.

Vermax turns beneath you and the world tilts, but Jace does not let you fall.

When you finally break just enough to breathe, it is only by a fraction, your forehead still close to his, your breath mingling with his in the cold air.

You look at him then, properly, and something in your expression seems to undo him more than the kiss itself ever could.

“This is…” you start, but the words fail you.

His thumb brushes lightly against your side where he still holds you.

“I know,” he says quietly.

The wind tears past again, colder now against your flushed skin, and you should pull away, should think, should question, should make sense of any of this.

You don't.

Instead he leans in again, lips claiming yours with a hunger that has been building since the moment he returned days ago. His mouth hot and insistent against your own.

The kiss deepens instantly, his tongue slides against the seam of your lips before you part them, letting him set the pace, and the one sets is perfect, a desperate rhythm that sends sparks racing through you.

Your fingers tangle in his dark curls, pulling him closer as his hands roam your body with possessive certainty, one sliding up to cup your breast through the thin fabric of your riding leathers while the other grips your hip, anchoring you against him on Vermax's broad back.

The dragon soars higher, the sea a glittering expanse far below, but all you can feel is the hard press of Jace's body.

You moan into the kiss, the sound swallowed by the rushing air and the steady beat of wings, as Jace shifts you effortlessly onto his lap, your legs straddling his.

His tongue delves deeper, exploring every inch of your mouth with an intensity that makes warmth gather in your belly, wetness already soaking your undergarments.

"You know," he breathes against your lips, his voice rough, "you're mine now. Always have been."

You let him move you as he pleases, but soon you can feel the way his cock strains against his breeches, thick and insistent against your thigh.

"Are you alright?"

You can only nod shakily, letting your head find the hollow of his shoulder.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, Jace."

His hand slips between your bodies, fingers deftly undoing laces to find your slick folds, stroking you slow and gathering your wetness on his fingers.

Then he reaches to free himself, hot and heavy as you wrap your fingers around him. He covers your hand with his own, guiding your hand to stroke him slowly.

"We should probably stop." he grits out.

You whine in response, "No, Jace please. I don't want to stop."

Jace lifts you higher, positioning the head of his cock at your entrance.

"You tell me if that changes, okay."

"Yes."

"Promise me." He tilts your head towards him, holding your eyes with his own.

"I promise." With that he thrusts upward in one smooth motion, burying himself deep inside you with a groan that vibrates through his chest into yours.

The fullness stretches you perfectly, every ridge and vein of him dragging against your inner walls as he begins to move.

"Gods you're tight." He grunts, his hands gripping to guide your hips in a grinding rhythm that matches the dragon's powerful wingbeats.

Pleasure coils tight in your core, building with each thrust, the wind caressing your exposed skin where leathers have been shoved aside, breasts pressed to his chest, nipples hard from the chill and his touch.

His mouth finds yours again, the kiss messy and passionate, tongues tangling as he fucks into you over and over.

You can feel it — his claim, his love, his protection — in every thrust.

He feels you start to tighten around him, one hand fisting your hair to make you look at him. His eyes are wild, hair messed by wind and jaw clenched to tight its a wonder its not cracked.

"Not yet my love. Hold on for me."

"I cannot, Jace." You gasp, hand flying to his shoulder in desperation.

"Yes, you can." He coos, pulling your face up to meet his in another kiss, this one softer, coaxing you to match him as his thrusts grew harsher, rougher.

Only then does his hand move from your hair, snaking down to find where your bodies are joined. He rubs tight, deliberate circles that have you arching into him.

"Jace, please, it's too much."

"Okay, you can come now."

You do, raw ecstasy filling your body as you shatter around him, crying out his name into the endless sky.

Your eyes shut, body going completely slack against his for the trembling that claims you. Your legs are shaking where they're slotted around his hips.

"Good girl, just like that. Let me take care of you." He says as his thrusts get harder, his hands now assisting to pull you down to meet them.

Then, his pace grows erratic, and you can feel his breathing is more laboured as it hits your temple.

With one final thrust he goes rigid, following you over the edge, pulsing hot and deep within you. His arms wrap around you, the world reduced to the two of you and the endless blue above the waves.

Jace is the first to move.

It is small at first, almost hesitant, as if he is afraid that shifting even slightly might undo something irreparable.

His hand, which had been steady at your waist only moments ago, loosens just enough for him to adjust you more carefully against him, pulling off his cloak and draping it around your shoulders with a gentleness that feels entirely at odds with the fact that you are both still several thousand feet and he's still inside you.

“You’re cold,” he says, though it sounds more like something he needs to believe than something he has observed.

“I’m fine,” you reply automatically.

He doesn’t look reassured.

Instead, he shifts again, this time lifting you off him with a hiss and placing you in front of him on the saddle again.

“You didn’t have to-” he starts.

You tilt your head slightly. “Have to what?”

The words seem to catch somewhere behind his teeth, like everything he might say is either too much or not enough.

“Do that,” he settles on finally, quieter now. “Like that.”

You blink at him, trying to follow. “Jace.”

His jaw tightens slightly at the sound of his name, but he doesn’t look away.

“It should not have been like that,” he says, and there is something carefully restrained in his voice now, something that feels like it has been pushed down hard. “Your first time should have been-” He exhales through his nose, frustrated with himself more than anything else. “Well, for starters, not in the sky.”

For a moment, you just stare at him. “You think I am going to complain because it was in the sky?”

“I am serious,” he says.

“I know you are,” you reply, smiling faintly. “That’s the problem.”

He blinks once.

You shift slightly in his arms so you can see his face more clearly, even as Vermax continues his smooth, unbothered flight beneath you both.

“I do not need it to be… whatever you are imagining it should have been,” you continue, voice softening now, grounding into something steadier. “I did not think about it being in a bed or a room or anywhere else."

"You must've had some fantasy, something you hoped for or wanted from it." He presses, seemingly not content with your reassurance.

"Jacaerys, I wanted it to be you.”

That quiets him completely.

“That is not-” he starts. “It is,” you interrupt gently.

A pause.

Then, quieter, almost teasing now that you have his full attention again, “Besides, I think I will remember this more than if it had been in a bed.”

Something like a reluctant sound leaves him, half laugh and half exhale, and the tension in his shoulders eases just a fraction.

“You are certain?” he asks after a moment.

"Of course."

IYou lean back into him properly, letting the wind rush past as Vermax carries you both forward, the world still impossibly wide beneath you and forever changed.

He thinks, in some way, he must have hoped that you would fly to him, upon your dragon, because his stomach starts to settle into desolation at the sight of empty skies.

His savior, his salvation, crying out his name so he can feel the strings of your voice play the tune of his heart once more; a final call of ‘Jace!’ before he dissolves into the sea.

Perhaps, he convinces himself, his head keeps slipping beneath the surface, or perhaps he is delirious from blood loss, because his eyes keep lolling upwards and finding no trace of you.

Surely you are there, somewhere, anywhere, loving him, lacking him, dreaming him back into your vicinity. Surely you are, and that is why you cannot be here to kiss him in a sea of fire and blood, to drag him out from the tide, to resuscitate him the way you always do.

He wants to remember you again, tries to recall the lilt of your eyes in the sunlight, the tender press of your fingertips against his throat, the particular happiness love has taught him to associate with you. He can envision it in his mind; can almost hear you uttering reassurances in his ear; can feel the nestle of your fingers in his hair; can feel the swell of warmth around him, seeping into the water and consuming the edges of his form, skirting around him, until it envelopes him whole.

If he focuses long enough for a moment, on the darkness unfurling through his mind, he can acquiesce the nothingness to bleary outlines of dragons, and the cold of morning flights, and the ridges of your name traced in ink, followed by his surname.

He wants, desperately, to sink into the figures he views in the abyss, but a sudden fear grips his heart where it is still fighting, that stops him from tipping over.

No, no, no, no, no, you have to come, he has to live, he can’t die here swallowed by the sea, he doesn’t want to be left alone.

He cannot open his eyes. 

His consciousness flops uselessly, body floating along the surface of the sea docilely, accepting its fate so easily. Move, he wants to scream, wants to clutch onto his limbs and force them to move, to swim, to struggle, to take himself out of the sea, to pull out the arrows, he should not be so weak…

He cannot open his eyes.

Pain resurfaces to bite him once more, numbed only by the frigid water. But even the sea is not as cold as the chill that washes over him, spreading goosebumps and salt along his skin. The waves lap lightly at his throat, his jaw, his ears.

His mind thrashes erratically, ressurecting itself in sudden spurts of strength to despair at his utter lack of ability in the wake of death.

He is going to die here. His cognizance is descending faster than he can make closure with, and his mind is bawling, screaming in its subliminal confines, the sensation already dulling in its inconsequential defiance.

He cannot die here, he cannot die here; his body has already given up, his will to live soon tamed by physical demise.

He can still think, he can still feel, he can still remember, he cannot be dead, not if he is still narrating and conscious, he has to live, but he cannot move.

Everyone is waiting for him, you are waiting for him, you—

You…

He just has to go a bit further…

He just has to gather a bit more strength…

He will live and move and crawl his way back to you, he just has to…

rest, for a while.

(I MINUTE)

“Jacaerys is a bit of a long name,” you say. It is the first time you have spoken since you had been introduced to him the evening before.

The room is virtually empty, seating only you on the corner armchair, and him on the windowsill. 

He glances at you, jolted by your voice, “…Oh.”

You meet his gaze head-on, eyes boring into him in a way that is less confrontational and more… earnest.

“…You can call me Jace,” he proffers, after a moment.

“Alright,” you acquiesce. He watches you diffidently, lips set in a faint pout.

Your father gave you sweets, tucked beneath the fold of your hands in your lap, for you to share with the heir to the throne.

You hesitate, for a moment, before meeting his gaze once more, “Do you like sweets?”

Jace frowns, and you suppose it was an unneeded question. You doubt he would’ve rejected the sweets if you had offered them directly, but now that he has the choice, he will surely turn down your offer and leave you cradling candy beneath your fingers for the rest of the congealing silence.

“Do you have any?” He queries, instead. You turn your hand over, watching him expectantly all the while.

“Do you want them?”

He nods eagerly, a smile beginning to tug at his lips as you hold your hand out, “Yes, please.”

His fingers graze your palm briefly, as he plucks one of the sweets out, faltering for a moment before innocuously taking all of them. Your gaze dips, cursing yourself for your sudden awkwardness. You’re not normally so uncultured.

“Have you seen the gardens yet?” He asks casually, after he’s finished the sweets and you’ve sat wallowing in shame for a few minutes.

Your head raises, “I think my mother told me not to go outside the castle.”

“You’ll get away with it if you’re with me,” Jace gives a boyish grin, fitting for his age, “Come on.”

You rise from your chair, following after him. He holds the door for you, shutting behind you gently.

“Shh,” he gives a mischevious wink, before darting past the guards when their heads are turned.

He glances back periodically as he scampers into the courtyard to ensure he hasn’t lost you. You arrive shortly behind him, wide-eyed and rumpled. The sight prompts him to glance away, a strange warmth flooding his cheeks.

In the years that come, making you run around after him becomes one of his favorite hobbies.

He coughs awkwardly, quickly turning towards the greenery before you can think too much of it.

You shuffle next to him, peering at the flowers, “They’re beautiful.”

You lean down to indulge in the fragrance of the flowers, noticing Jace watching you intently in your periphery.

You glance over at him, inquisitively.

“You’re beautiful,” he blurts out.

“Oh,” you utter faintly, paralyzed for a moment as he flushes heavily and runs off.

Your arm shoots out, trying to grasp onto his retreating form leaving you, the way he did in the end, but falling short.

You’re frozen for a few moments, unsure of how to feel now that the giddiness of the moment was so quickly disrupted by his departure.

Those must have been some very special sweets, you decide finally, to have wreaked such a phenomenon upon a boy you’ve only just talked to once. Such odd behavior, odd even for someone you’ve only just met, because surely that cannot be normal for anyone. 

It must be the sweets, you affirm in your mind. You cannot think of any other reason for his behavior.

(II MINUTES)

It is difficult to avoid someone when they have spent a month in the same castle as you, and Jace is inevitably brought before you once more.

He stands next to you, inching his way closer until your sleeves are brushing.

You glance over at him. His head ducks once more, but he does not run away this time.

“…Do you have any more sweets?” 

So it was the sweets. You muster a wan smile, “I can ask my father for more.”

“It’s fine,” he answers quickly, “I don’t really need them.” And then he’s off once more, departing quickly before you can prolong the conversation.

Such exchanges populate the majority of your interactions with him, until enough time passes that he realizes he will likely not be rid of you anytime soon. Even he understands that it would do him well to dispel the uncomfortable feeling he feels in his stomach when he’s around you.

You find him rather peculiar, and you do not understand why he despises you to the point that he tries to avoid you at every turn. Have you done anything wrong, you wonder?

You cannot fathom why he detests you so, and you eventually gain the conviction to deliver a peace offering.

Sweets seem to be the source of every exchange you’ve had with him, so you decide upon them.

You decide to pluck a few flowers from the garden and stash the sweets inside a bouquet, slithering out into the courtyard. 

Your hand is moments away from the stem when you glance back, freezing when you notice one of the guards watching you impassively.

Your lips part to protest, to implore your innocence and sulk back to your chambers, but the guard watches you for a few moments without any true reaction.

Then, slowly, the guard nods, to which you beam brightly, and turns away.

You do not pause to waste the guard’s lenience, gathering the flowers systemically. As you return, you stop before the guard and offer one of the flowers. The guard hesitates, for a moment, before accepting it.

Unbeknownst to you, Jace has been crouched in the bushes all the while, having dived into the foliage upon seeing you enter the garden. 

His eyes narrow when he sees you pause before the guard, chest churning in a way that he does not like at all. A familiar petulance settles over him, and he straightens out of the bushes swiftly, dusting himself off and pointedly trudging in the other direction.

When he returns to his chambers, however, all the discontent he has been carefully curating vanished with a gasp that escapes before he can stop it.

Against his door, lay flowers tied neatly with a ribbon. He recognizes it as the kind you use in your hair, after numerous times spent watching you in passing. The sweets are wrapped up inside, with what seems to be a shawl holding it all together. Your initials are inscribed choppily on one of the sweets.

It is beautiful, daresay even more so than you. Sweeter than sweets, and it makes his teeth rot. His heart feels seized in his chest for some reason, and he wants to throw the bouquet into the fire and also hunt you down and share the sweets with you.

He decides on a middle ground, and runs all over the castle with a frenzied urgency until he finds you, in the drawing room with your parents.

“Take it back!” He shoves the bouquet into your arms roughly, eyes wide and panicked. 

Then, after a brief hesitation, he hugs you roughly as well, withdrawing almost immediately and running out of the room.

Silence lapses over the room, and you are left in a state of profound confusion.

“…Is that my shawl?” Your mother asks, finally.

“I thought it’d suit the bouquet,” is all you defend yourself with, picking gingerly at the petals and still staring numbly at the doorway.

From Jace’s end, he dashes through the corridors and up the stairs until he is safely stashed away in his room. Despite himself, he cannot suppress the annoyance that sprouts, blooms like flowers, when you do not come after him you never did, not until it was too late. 

It is unfair, he knows that, but most of his attitude towards you is. It’s not your fault he feels all anxious and his stomach goes in knots whenever he’s around you, although he wouldn’t completely rule out food poisoning as a possibility considering the many people that would probably want to take him out.

He spends the rest of the afternoon tucked away tightly in his room, until a knock resounds on his door.

“Come in,” he says sullenly.

His mother steps in with the same stolidness in her eyes that has preceded all her lectures of him. Your mother must’ve spoken with her, or perhaps you did.

“I have been told you have run into a conflict with your young friend.”

“[Name]’s not my friend,” he cuts in sharply, prompting a reproving glance from Rhaenyra.

“Apologize, Jacaerys,” Rhaenyra reproaches. You must be awfully important to her, for her to undertake such a measure of harshness in curtness and his full name.

“I have nothing to apologize for,” he fires back, the fire churning in his chest stopping him from swallowing his pride.

He blames his mother, when you are seated next to him for supper.

“I’m sorry you didn’t like the flowers,” you start, after he has spent enough time peering into the pit of his bowl for you to feel bad.

“The flowers were fine,” he answers tersely.

You frown.

“Was it the cakes?”

“I didn’t eat them,” he reminds you, “but they were good last time.”

“Was the shawl ugly?” You try a final time.

He seems to lose his patience at that, “I don’t want the bouquet, can you not accept that?”

You pause, gaze dipping from his face, “…Oh.”

His heart sinks into the pit of his stomach at that, and his lips are parting to speak, to voice the longing that has been tugging at him for weeks, nearly months now, but already your gaze has returned to bore into his.

“Why do you hate me?”

You slide off the chair, pushing past him once the words have been uttered, and within the span of a few seconds you have disappeared from his perception.

The hall is crowded enough that no one seems to notice your departure, individuals flowing in and out in a way that drowns out all semblance of presence and absence. 

He tries to look for his mother, to implore her into placing you with him for tomorrow’s breakfast so he can at least resolve things after a night of rest, but she has been swept away by the sea like him of people and he realizes that he must confront his own wrongdoings, for once.

He gives a heavy sigh, exhaling all the tension that has been tying up his heart since the first day you spoke to him. And then he’s chasing after you, darting into the halls like you’re following him into the garden again.

The halls are restless with his presence but absent of yours, and despite how unsurprising it is, he still feels personally disappointed in some way.

The guard peers at him for a few moments, before gesturing at the general direction of the courtyard, “Go.”

And the very guard he had felt such resentment for this morning becomes a source of much gratitude and he thanks the guard in a string of rapid words as he dashes into where every one of his learning moments seem to start.

He finds you in the orchard, tearing apart the bouquet. You must’ve kept it, he supposes, after he gave it back to you.

He stops before you tentatively, hovering over you for a few moments before reaching down to pry the shreds of the bouquet from your hands.

Your head raises. You have not cried yet, but there is an incipient gleam in your eyes. Still, his interruption seems to cease your outburst.

“I’m sorry,” you say once more, but it’s far more sincere this time, “I was being immature.”

He is quiet, for a spell.

“I liked the bouquet,” he admits, finally, “a lot.”

Your brows furrow, “You don’t have to lie to make me feel better.”

“I’m not lying,” he pronounces, “I thought the bouquet was beautiful.”

After a moment, “I think you’re beautiful.”

You watch him for a long moment, before glancing away, “Save that for your courtiers.”

“I mean it, I promise!” He rushes to his feet when you move to leave once more, gathering the scraps of the bouquet and holding them against him.

It’s a last ditch effort, caution to the wind. 

“I adore you!”

He does not truly believe what he says until the words escape. It is the only thing that can make sense, he realizes with a sudden bout of fear; the pattering of his heart, the tension coiling in his stomach, the sudden urge he had to hug you boiling over from all the times he tried to touch you impulsively.

He watches you with wide eyes, like a frightened deer before a dragon.

“You—“ You turn towards him, eyes flaring accusatorily, but they falter in face of his fearful earnestness.

“I adore you,” he says once more, with conviction.

You watch him for a long moment, gradually approaching him. He has the impression that you’re trying to decipher every line of his irises, because you come close enough that he thinks he could kiss you, if he truly dared.

But he has never brave in matters of the heart. It is the only aspect that his courage falls short in, and his heart stutters when you take his hands in yours.

“I suppose I have no choice but to accept your declaration of affection,” you declare, “it would be rather awkward if I were to turn you down.”

He pouts at you, when the lilt in your eyes assures him you are being facetious.

“…I like you too,” you tell him. 

The frenzied battering of his chest returns, but this time he is a willing victim now that he understands why.

(III MINUTES)

“What do you think you’ll name your dragon?”

You glance at him, “What makes you so sure I’ll have one?”

Jace shrugs, “They seem to like you.”

Your gaze returns to the skies, watching the dragons circling overhead.

“Some type of food, probably,” you say, after the silence spills over.

“You can’t name your dragon after something you want to eat,” he huffs a laugh.

“Your brother did that,” you counter.

“He wanted to,” Jace concedes, “but of course he wasn’t allowed to. I think he uses that name in his mind, though.”

“I’ll do that then,” you insist.

“What food, then?” He plays along, unable to help the fondness that seeps into his tone.

“I’m not sure yet,” you proclaim, “I’ll have to take inspiration from today’s meals.”

“My mother will not be happy to hear that,” he chides.

“She won’t be nearly as unhappy if Apple Pie is fierce.”

He quirks a brow, “Apple Pie?”

“First name that came to mind.”

He sits there with you, watching the dragons for a while. He can see Vermax descending beneath the sea, thrashing and drowning, already thinking and hoping for days that will soon be spent flying alongside you until the end of your lives.

Ultimately, you do not name your dragon Apple Pie, but he is indeed fierce, the only one brave enough to retaliate against Vermax. Your dragon reminds him of himself. He supposes, in that sense, that Vermax should remind him of you.

They are rarely well-behaved together, but every once in a while they enter an idyllic epoch and his mornings are spent racing with you. You are not much speedier than him on foot (rarely, do you manage to best him), but you fly much faster not fast enough on dragonback.

He has never minded losing, however, because you always do good on your promise of kissing him should he fall behind. That, he often thinks, is a reason to fly in itself.

(IV MINUTES)

When the news first comes that you are to be betrothed to Jace, he is ecstatic. 

“I cannot believe, we are to be wed!” He declares, hands gesturing excitedly as he lays in your lap.

“There will be quite a few years until then,” you remind him.

“Indeed, but we’ll be together throughout, won’t we?” He peers up at you imploringly, “That is already a source of much joy.”

Your fingers card through his locks, running through the knots, “You’re very easy to please.”

He scowls, although its effectiveness is dulled by the way he is very clearly pleased by his current position, head a familiar weight in your lap.

The fields are abundant with flowers, an ocean of color enveloping Jace. You tug at his locks absentmindedly, already considering which ones would suit his hair.

His eyes round on you from beneath, reaching up so that his fingertips graze your cheek. Your breath hitches, gaze dipping to find his. Your back rounds, in way that is likely detrimental to your posture, but it brings you closer to him.

His hand cups your cheek softly, and you reach down to muss up his hair once more. He pulls you down into a kiss, lips sweet against yours.

“Why are your eyes open?” You laugh, unable to kiss him seriously.

He pouts, “Our faces aren’t exactly aligned the same way currently. I had to aim.”

You suppress the urge to make fun of him, knowing your kissing privileges will be suspended for a week if you do, “Close your eyes, Jace. I’ll do the aiming.”

He complies, eyes slipping shut. You take a few moments to compose yourself and swallow your mirth.

Your hand reaches down to cradle his cheek, closing your own eyes beforehand and successfully finding his lips with yours.

A certain warmth expands in his chest when you kiss him, the grass tickling your fingers and the sides of your face. He reaches up blindly, clumsily finding your face as well, and pulling you down, closer.

The sea of flowers flows with the wind around the two of you, nestled in the depths of love and life. He envisions the paysage in his mind as he kisses you, and it does not seem as ridiculous as it does in books to want a moment to last forever.

(V MINUTES)

You pull away for air for a few moments, and Jace is already whining, fingers pressing into your nape in an attempt to coax you back.

“Jace…” you exhale shakily. Your eyes are dark with devotion as you press your forehead to his, panting heavily.

“Kiss me,” he murmurs, “I have never wanted to feel another’s touch as much as yours. I will die if you do not kiss me again, my love.”

Normally you would scoff at such frivolities, but instead you kiss him immediately, lips pressing against his sensually. 

His cheeks warm, and he has to bite back a sigh, kissing you back sloppily. His tongue maps out your mouth sensually. 

You let your teeth catch over his bottom lip as he pulls you closer, hands cradling his face closer to yours. It is a culmination of longing, and he thinks in that moment that he would very much like to never let you go.

(VI MINUTES)

It becomes a tradition, of sorts, to exchange bouquets every year between the two of you, reminiscent of the initial offering that started it all.

He still remembers hiding in that bush, seething with the jealousy seeing you smile at a guard all those years ago. He used to be so dramatic, he muses fondly. He is no longer sure where that guard is, but in their place another guard stands; one, who no longer needs to care about his ventures now that he is less of a child than he was before.

He meanders into the garden, this place of immense connotation. Where he used to play as a boy with Luke, where he tried his best to garden with his mother, where he confessed to you. He supposes, in a way, all of his most profound attachments were formed here. 

He gathers the flowers, arranges them cozily in a shawl his mother reluctantly allowed him to borrow after hearing his reasoning behind it. There is only one part missing.

From your end, you have decided to try your hand at pottery. Rhaenyra takes pity on your efforts after a while, and decides to oversee you as you pinch at the clay.

“Does this look like you?” You hold up the mini-Rhaenyra for the real counterpart to see, a winning smile of defeat on your face.

She tries to conceal her wince, “…I think he’ll know it’s me.”

You fumble your way through the rest, placing the general shapes of the two of you and various figures in the castle inside the bouquet.

When he receives it, he feels it is “evocative of diligence and a lack of talent in the pottery department”. He finds it adorable.

As for his, he decides to adorn it with something more this year. 

“Jace, is that—“

You scoff when he kneels with the bouquet, although it comes out far softer than you intend.

A ring is nestled between the flowers, and he watches you all doe-eyed and smiley in a way that renders it very difficult to say no to him.

“Do you take me as your husband?”

“I’m supposed to, yes,” you quip, “We’re already betrothed, Jace. You’re my husband in the makings.”

“But what if I wish to be your husband sooner?”

“Jace…”

“Marry me,” he whispers.

The next morning he flies to the Gullet.

(VII MINUTES)

Happy moments, spliced with imminent despair.

The waves seem to follow the melody of your voice, rising higher and higher until he thinks, in the last moments that he can, that he must be drowning now, as well.

“Jace,” the waves beckon to him, morphing the way water always has into your voice. He wants to reach out, to blindly follow its source, to find you again, but his lips can barely part to breathe.

His lashes fan over his cheeks, clinging wetly and sealing shut. 

His fingers go lax around the arrowhead, slipping beneath the waves. 

The nihility behind his eyelids dilates, promises him, soothes him as he curls into it the way he used to curl into you.

“Come home,” you murmur. 

Jacaerys tries to smile, heart stuttering in its coda. 

Yes, home…

Lying in the sea, the water cradling him, preserving him, until the morning comes—

At last,

he is home.

tagged. — @omgsuperstarg, @reus-ut-peccatum, @minaminallc, @claerysa